Therapy
by Leonca
Summary: Dr. Mark Durante has been put in charge of rehabilitating one of Arkham's most vicious rogues, the Scarecrow. As he attempts to understand his patient he will learn more about himself than he ever wanted to know.
1. Chapter 1

Therapy

As the guard leads my next patient into my office I prepare myself for the inevitable mental battle. He takes his seat without being asked to, eyes casually roaming the room, refusing to look at me.

"How are you today, Professor Crane?"

"How would you be, forced to live out your days in this miserable excuse for a hospital? You make a mockery of me by insisting I stay here."

"I believe you deserve to be offered an opportunity for rehabilitation."

"Really? Have you invented a cure for a shitty childhood? An inoculation against bullies? Have you rounded up all the fools of the world and done away with them in the gas chambers? I have done more to improve society than you have with your ideals about 'rehabilitation.'"

I must fight to suppress a sigh of annoyance, which would only encourage him. Does he truly believe what he says, or is it simply an excuse for his antisocial behavior? Perhaps this session will be the one which will offer me an answer.

"Society will always have its bullies, but we have improved significantly in how we understand and deal with them. You use a costume as a coping mechanism and to avoid healthy social interaction. I think that, if I could help you gain confidence in yourself, you would see how unnecessary it really is."

He meets my eyes for the first time and I see the flicker of interest that enters them when I mention the costume. He sets his hands on his knees and leans toward me.

"You have a man here who funnels his aggressive impulses into the persona of a ventriloquist's dummy. Classic dissociative identity disorder. _That_ is a coping mechanism. That is the kind of person the asylum was built to treat. My costume is a tool, an object of social manipulation. I do not wear it for my benefit, but for the masses that have been trained to fear it."

He grins widely. I decide to approach the issue from another angle.

"Do you feel different when you wear the costume?"

"Yes."

"Do you think you would answer my questions any differently if you were wearing it right now?"

"Could I?"

His voice lowers and his eyes widen. He looks like a child who has just been offered a treat if he promises to behave himself.

"I am sorry, but it is against hospital policy."

He smiles again.

"Come now, doctor, be honest with yourself. That is not the true reason you will not give it to me. You know better than anyone what happens when I put it on. You are afraid to let me have it."

"I am not frightened of you, Crane. Without your chemicals and other weapons you are just another man, far less intimidating than many of the other patients I see on a daily basis. A costume would not change that."

"Prove it. Let me attend the next session with it on, and we will see how you really feel about the Scarecrow."

"Do not try to shift the focus of this conversation to me. We are here to discuss your problems, and possible solutions to them."

"Why deprive yourself from a decent conversation, doctor? The mentally ill do not make good company. Surely you would enjoy an opportunity to talk about more interesting things with someone on your own intellectual level."

He thinks he can trick me into revealing more about myself, that if I open up he can dig through my mind in search of the things I fear most.

"I am here by choice, doing this job because I want to help people. I think I understand what you mean, though. Did you enjoy engaging in conversation about your research with your colleagues at Gotham University?"

"'I am here because I want to help people.' Is that your goal in life? Is that why you slave away in this hellhole, risking personal injury and worse at the hands of Gotham's most brutal thugs? What if they cannot be helped? Your life's work would be pointless, rendering you obsolete, a laughing stock."

"Mr. Crane-"

"We all wish to leave a mark on the world, to prove that our lives meant something. I will be remembered for revealing the pettiness of mankind, for showing those fools what fear does to the mind, how it makes them drop the pretention of the nobility to cower like witless animals. You will be remembered for your futile struggle to help Arkham's madmen."

"Mr. Crane, if you cannot stay on topic-"

"How do you think it will end for you, doctor? Will the Joker decide to have a bit of fun with you the next time he escapes? Can you imagine Killer Croc's jaws wrapped around your head, ready to squeeze it like a ripe watermelon? Perhaps you fear a fate worse than death. I know of chemical cocktails that can drive a man to permanent madness, leave him a perfect candidate for this dreadful place."

My finger is on the button underneath my desk before I realize what I am doing. I press it. The door opens and the guard enters, looking first to Crane and then myself.

"He is not being cooperative. There is no use in continuing this session any further. You may take him back to his cell now."

The guard places his hand on Crane's shoulder and he flinches, eyes still locked on me.

"It would be so therapeutic for you, doctor, to face your fears. Let me have it. Prove that you are not afraid of me."

"That's enough," the guard warns.

He rises from his chair, struggling against the guard as he drags him out of the room. He extends a bony hand toward me, teeth bared, eyes narrowed, lost in his sudden outburst of rage.

"Give me back my costume! Give it back, you bastard!"

He flails pathetically in the grip of the bigger man. The guard meets my eyes, shrugs, and drags him out of sight. As his screams grow fainter a hyena-like cackle erupts from another part of the asylum.

I rise on unsteady feet and go to the door, closing it for a few moments' worth of quiet. Free to think in peace, I try to decipher what went wrong. The costume has to be the key. There must be some way to use it to get him to let me in, to understand him. I do not dare let him so much as set eyes on it though, for fear he would work himself into a frenzy in his desperation to possess it again.

Perhaps I am going about this all wrong. His attachment to it may be stronger than I anticipated. Maybe if I were to offer him a piece of it- a glove, perhaps, or his hat, it would have a calming effect. I pause in my line of thought to add this possibility to my notes from this session.

I will need to discuss it with my colleagues first. We have never worked with him in costume before due to the aggression and distractibility he shows while wearing it, and there is a chance he will revert fully to his other persona if he wears even a small part of it. I am beginning to wonder, though, if it would not be worth the risk. The confidence it gives him allows him to speak more freely, offering the possibility of prying deeper into his mind.

And what a mind it is, dark and convoluted like a puzzle. He has retreated so deeply that he does not even understand himself anymore, though he claims to have learned more about the human condition than all the staff here put together. Once I get him to see how he has been avoiding his own fears I can begin making true progress.

I catch myself nibbling at the eraser of my pensile as I review the notes for my next patient. I roll up my sleeve and pull back a rubber band set around my wrist, letting the sting of it snapping against my skin remind me of the unprofessional nature of sticking things in my mouth. For every bad habit, there is a way to break a man out of it. For every puzzle of the mind, there is a solution if you are willing to push yourself to uncover it.

_Author's Notes: I am still new to writing fan fiction, but once this idea came to me I decided to see what I could do with it. This is in response to a prompt on deviantart to write something centered around an emotion, so I chose curiosity. I wanted to write something that could play on all the interesting psychology classes I've taken and books I've read. Dr. Mark Durante is an original character, since I feel weird about doing horrible things to canon characters and I'm not very familiar with the Arkham staff._


	2. Chapter 2

Therapy Chapter II

"Hi, Dr. Durante. How is the professor doing?"

She hands me the coffee pot and begins scooping spoonfuls of sugar into her own cup.

"Not well, I'm afraid. I will be trying something new this afternoon, but if it doesn't work I suppose it will be back to the drawing board."

"Good luck. He can be a decent guy, if you give him a chance."

"I have yet to see that for myself, but I thank you for your vote of confidence, Harleen."

I take my cup and return to my office to let it cool while I review my notes. The knock on the door startles me, and I am surprised to realize how much time I have spent studying them. The guard lingers at the door as the patient takes his seat, but I dismiss him with a nod and a calm smile.

He slouches forward in his chair, arms crossed on his knees. His eyes drift lazily to the floor. Even after allowing him to cool down for a week, the resentment still taints his features.

"I hope I find you well today, Professor Crane."

No response.

"If you are willing to cooperate, I would like to spend today's session discussing the costume."

He lifts his head to meet my eyes.

"My 'coping mechanism?' I thought you already made your opinion on the subject perfectly clear."

"I realize how important it is to you. I would like to understand this better, in your own words."

He tilts his head slightly and narrows his eyes.

"What is there to understand? You've seen it all by now, all of Gotham's freaks and their peculiar obsession with crafting new identities for themselves. Am I not simply one more psychological oddity to you?"

"Of course not. Every person is unique. It would be a grave oversight to lump them all together like that."

I open a drawer in my desk and dip my hand in slowly, watching him out of the corner of my eye. He leans forward, eyes wide with curiosity. My fingers touch the stiff cloth. I let him wait for a few more moments before lifting it up for him to inspect.

"After some discussion with my superiors I have been permitted to let you have this during sessions, though at the moment they are not willing to allow it to leave this room."

The hat is filthy, and I must struggle to conceal my disgust at holding it. I flinch when I see my fingers resting on what appears to be a stain of dried blood. Regaining my composure, I hold it out to him. He reaches for it, but stops short of taking it. Critical eyes scan my face. He sees me as the bully, the authority figure, the latest in a long line of people who have wanted nothing more than to hold the carrot under his nose and laugh as they pull it away. This will not work if I cannot earn his trust.

"Please, if it would make you happy, take it."

As soon as he has the hat it consumes his full attention. He runs his hand underneath the wide brim, drawing his fingers through the straw painstakingly sewn into it.

"If you are looking for the vials filled with your hallucinogen, I can assure you we found them all. I must admit I was impressed by the ingenuity of hiding them in plain sight like that."

A wide grin crosses his face. His eyes close and he sets the hat atop his head. I have never seen him so relaxed despite his stressful surroundings. When he looks at me again his face falls flat. He sits up straighter and tilts his head, allowing the brim and the shadow it casts to obscure his eyes.

"Who are you now?"

"My good doctor, why do you search for something that is not there? When I become the Scarecrow I am still Jonathan Crane. Only a delusional person like the Batman would believe that becoming a symbol makes him something more than human. You do not fear me because I am inhuman, but because I remind you of what you yourself are capable of."

The voice is a chilling monotone, but I will not allow myself to be intimidated. If he enjoys talking like this and remains calm, I can consider it progress.

"Why is fear so important? It helps us survive, yes, but even animals do not exist in a constant state of fear. The stress would kill them."

"We are animals, and yet we are different, more foolish. A deer holds the very real fear of the wolf, coming at any moment to tear it to pieces. It is always alert, but when its senses tell it the wolf is not near it can relax. Only humans fear the abstract. You fear the impulses of your own mind. When you are locked in a cycle of obsessive compulsive behavior this worries you. Society tells you this is abnormal, that you could be shunned for revealing it. Thus, you live with the fear of rejection every day, unable to escape it."

I am unsure of how to respond. He places a finger on his wrist.

"The rubber band. You try to train yourself out of it, thinking this will remove the fear from your life. The human mind is too complex to thwart so easily. The deeper you look the more layers you discover, each more difficult to overcome than the last."

I take a long sip of coffee, not caring that it has gone cold by now.

"Yes, I do struggle with obsessive compulsive disorder, a disorder driven by anxiety, or fear as you may prefer to see it. When I remind myself of what I am doing it helps to end the cycle of repetitive behavior. Do you use a similar method for taking control of your own fears?"

"I do not control fear. I embrace it. I let it fill me with its energy, heighten my senses, drive me to succeed."

"I see. You are good at motivating yourself then? How did you come to learn this strategy?"

"I did not truly understand fear until I looked into the dead eyes of the Batman for the first time. Such a cold mind, almost shut down to the emotions that define the human condition. I felt the fear he offered me and knew that I must share it with him. The day I break him is the day I see acknowledgment of my life's work to understand fear."

"And men fear what they do not understand. Batman fascinates you."

"Who would not be fascinated by such a strange person? You wish to see him here in Arkham, under your own care."

"That is not up to me to decide. The police may take issue with his acts of vigilantism, but I do not believe they would choose to send him here."

"I am not talking about his clinical diagnosis. _You_ want to have him under your control. You want to do things to him. I can see it in your eyes, whenever you speak of him."

My hand strays to the button under my desk again, but I will not press it yet. I will not let him think he can upset me.

"I have nothing against him, whoever he is. I have never even met him."

"You are lying. There is something there, a little quiver in your voice. Not fear. No, you are not afraid of him. Anger. Yes, that must be it. Of course, anger begets its own fears. A man plagued by anxiety and obsessive tendencies must fear the loss of self control."

There is no more coffee left. I grip the cup tighter, feel the Styrofoam bend between my fingers.

"You project your own feelings onto others, Crane. This is common, but it is not healthy. You say that when you put on the costume you are still a man. Do you think Batman sees you that way, or are you just another faceless criminal to him? You have certainly gathered more than your fare share of injuries from him."

"What is a broken arm between enemies? I have known worse people, and they have already been dealt with. Some have even been treated to a lifetime stay in your lovely hospital after I showed them what  
I was capable of. I do not hate Batman. He provides me with an opportunity to better myself and fine-tune my research. His destruction will be beautiful, the perfect example for the ignorant masses of the true power of fear."

"Could you accomplish that without the costume?"

"Certainly, but it makes the job so much easier when your subjects are conditioned to respond to a visual symbol that personifies their fears. The Batman is not immune to this, and neither are you, doctor."

My eyes catch the clock on the wall and I can see that our time is up. He follows my line of vision and frowns slightly. I press the button. The guard enters, looking momentarily shocked by the cold eyes that greet him beneath the brim of the hat. He hides his embarrassment with a scowl.

"I'm pleased that we were able to accomplish more in this session. I am sorry that my superiors will not let you take that back with you, but they are worried about how the other patients may react."

He removes the hat slowly, holds it in both hands, regarding it with an almost mournful expression. The guard crosses his arms and sneers.

"Come on buddy, I don't have all day."

He looks up at the man and bares his teeth, but if he was about to say anything in retort he is able to refrain. He tosses the hat back to me and I catch the dirty thing with a grimace, bringing a smile to his face. I ignore this and set it back in the drawer in my desk. The guard places a hand on his shoulder and he allows himself to be escorted out.

It is peaceful once again, but I do not feel calm just yet. Perhaps I should not be drinking coffee before the more rigorous sessions. I lean back in my chair to make amendments to my notes and see that the eraser on my pencil has been completely chewed off.

_Author's Notes: Though I have studied psychology I am by no means a professional. This is mainly an exercise in dialog and developing character motives, so I hope anything I get wrong about these kinds of therapy sessions is not distracting._


	3. Chapter 3

On my way out the door my eyes fall on the framed picture on the mantelpiece, bringing me to a stop. Julie smiles beside me, face frozen in gentle laughter. I realize that it happened exactly one year ago, on this day.

The gold ring feels heavy. I cannot leave it alone, cannot rip my mind away from contemplating every nick and rough spot as I twist it over and over again on my finger. I push my sleeve back to snap the rubber band against my skin, but surely this would be a futile struggle against the distraction hovering over my mind. I pull the ring off and set it down in front of the photograph. Tomorrow I can wear it again.

After seeing a few patients I take a break to clean my office. The cleaning crew Arkham employs is a joke. Half the times they neglect to empty the wastebasket, and you can forget more complicated tasks like dusting. As I begin attacking the film settled on the top of my bookcase I hear several pairs of feet running down the hallway. Intrigued, I poke my head through the door and catch the last of them, a nurse.

"What are you making such a racket for?"

She skids to a halt on the smooth floor and turns to face me with wide eyes.

"Batman got Dent! He's bringing him into the infirmary."

She runs out of sight without giving me any more details. I sigh and lean back against the wall. Despite the suggestions I have made security remains woefully relaxed and vital structures in the old building crumble, giving anyone with half a brain multiple escape options.

And then there is _him_. What is he doing in the infirmary? Every time he comes in here he is a distraction to people like that air-headed young woman who will drop what they are doing to waste time gawking at him. You'd think they'd be sick of the sight of costumes by now.

Despite the dust I have yet to tackle in my office something draws me out into the hallway. I do not wish to join so many others and become a useless bystander, but I cannot put the thought out of my mind. He is here. I cannot ignore it forever. Perhaps it is a sign, that he should be here today of all days.

The rickety elevator comes to a stop and the doors open to reveal a commotion outside the infirmary. He is not there yet, but soon I see several guards break away from the crowd while others wave their hands to encourage it to part. A tall black figure walks down the hallway, half dragging and half supporting Harvey Dent. He glares at the guards when they move in to take the patient from him, and they back off.

A doctor meets them in the doorway of the infirmary, takes one look at Dent, and pulls out a penlight to examine his pupils. Blood oozes from a gash in his head, and from his depressed attitude it seems likely that he suffered a concussion. A pair of nurses approach and the masked man willingly hands the patient to them. His exit will be quick, so if I want to act I must do it now.

I don't even know what I hope to accomplish. Tell him what he should have done? Look into his eyes to see if they are as dead as Crane claims they are? I don't have a chance to catch his attention before one of the guards speaks up.

"Thanks a million, Batman. Always a treat when you can bring the loonies back to us pre-sedated like that."

He turns his head slowly toward the man. The sloppy grin slides off his face as he is treated to the most intense expression of loathing I have ever seen one human being give another, an impressive feat for someone with half his face covered. The guard steps back, but the masked man does not take this as his cue to leave. He turns and stares in my direction- no, directly at me. Glancing around I realize that everyone else has melted away with the offensive man, leaving me almost alone in the hallway.

His expression softens. Finding myself a bit closer than I had intended, I can see that his eyes are blue, pale and icy but with a quality of warmth behind them that I did not expect. Confusion creeps into his features as he waits for me to say something. I cannot think of anything to do but glare and keep my mouth shut for fear of what might happen if I opened it. He studies me for a few more moments through narrowed eyes before turning away.

My hand reaches out as if acting of its own free will. I stop myself and let him go, biting my lip as I realize what I had almost done, but the idea will not leave me. He is a coward, hiding behind that mask. I and the rest of the staff here are the true heroes, seeing those rogues every day and antagonizing them with our treatments. We leave ourselves wide open, giving them our names and faces as targets should they wish to lash out against someone.

I was close enough to touch him. I could have brought him down from whatever moral heights he has placed himself on. I could have that mask in my hands right now.

He turns a corner and disappears with a silent swish of his black cape.

* * *

"How are you on this fine day, doctor?"

His smooth voice reflects the smile on his face. I do not want to be here, not today at least. My mind keeps wandering back to the masked man, the way he made the guard cower before him. Nonetheless I seem to have caught Crane in a good mood and must not let that opportunity go to waste. I do my best to return the smile, though I fear it must look as hollow as the ones he always has to offer.

"I am well. Have you given more thought to the things we discussed during our last session?"

"Yes. Of course."

He leans forward in his seat, eyes directed at me instead of wandering the room. I know now that I made the right decision in letting him have a piece of the costume back. It gives him something to look forward to, which in turn makes him easier to work with.

"Good. Can you give me an example?"

"I have changed my mind about the Batman. He injures people for the sheer fun of it. I did not see Harvey for myself, but word travels fast. He really is a terrible person and should be hated for his misdeeds."

I cannot help but scowl at him. He knows he is not tricking me, that I can tell he is lying from the playful tone in his voice, and yet he insists on doing it anyway. It is sad, seeing someone with such a developed intellect resorting to such childish behavior. I must reward it though, for it is far more desirable than the violent outbursts he is capable of. His eyes follow my hands as I withdraw the disgusting hat from the drawer in my desk. He takes it eagerly without hesitation, another sign of progress.

"Do you feel differently now that you have decided that you hate Batman?"

He closes his eyes as he sets the hat on his head, breaths coming slow and deep as he enters that state of mind which leaves him cold and monotone. When he opens them again he examines me more closely, gaze lingering on my hands for a few moments before returning to my face.

"Yes. I feel a great emptiness, a crushing loneliness. I had thought him a friend, in a strange sort of way. He was the only person left who ever paid me any attention. You talk to me because it is your job, but if this were not the case you would run screaming from my presence like all the rest. I thought he found me interesting, but now that I know he simply enjoys beating the shit out of people wearing costumes, what do I have left?"

The confession catches me off guard. His face is as blank as his voice; I cannot decipher mischief or true sadness in his features.

"Do you have any sort of support system you can turn to? Is there anyone here you could talk to on a daily basis, someone who might be willing to think of you as a friend?"

He gives a single stiff, humorless _ha_.

"Who the hell would want to be friends with the Scarecrow? Most of the patients piss their pants if I so much as look at them, and the other rogues mock me for my failures. I am surrounded by people, but I might as well be the loneliest man on Earth."

"Can you remember when you first started feeling this way?"

"Has there ever been a time when I did not? Well, perhaps once. A girl's affections feel like the best thing in the world, when you have them, but you know how women are. They lead you on only to betray you, or like delicate flowers they pass on to leave you utterly alone."

He is not tilting his head forward to let the shadows hide his eyes like last time, so they bore into me as if he is trying every second to see into my soul.

"What happened to her?"

"She died. It was a car wreck. The only thing that ever returned my love died."

I feel a lump building in my throat and reach for the cup of water on my desk. He continues as I start drinking.

"Is it really better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all? Do you take salt after your sugar? It only makes the pain greater, knowing that you will never be with her again. Do you know what makes it even worse?"

I shake my head.

"Knowing that it is someone else's fault that she is gone. A friend was responsible for keeping himself clear-headed enough to drive her and several others home from the party that night, but he got behind the wheel intoxicated. Even worse, he survived the accident that killed his passengers. I was still young and naïve. I could not understand why someone who had that much responsibility, who held another's life in their hands, could be so careless with it."

He pauses, but I am fascinated by his story and motion for him to continue.

"He ran and hid, started a new life for himself, but I never forgot what he did. Years later, after crafting my new identity and the tools that came with it, I tracked him down. I made a special kind of my fear toxin just for him. As well as fear it drags up the greatest source of guilt in a person's life and forces them to experience the memory through the eyes of their victims. I watched him writhe for several minutes as his mind turned to jelly. When I prodded him with my foot it was too much for his over-stimulated brain to handle, and he ran headfirst through a window. We were several stories up."

He might as well be wearing a mask, for the lack of pleasure or anger or any other reasonable emotion that should be found on his face. I try to think of him as a robot that will give me the answers if I ask my questions in the right ways.

"If it were not for your acts of revenge, you would be a free man. Do you ever regret doing things like that?"

"Freedom is an illusion. We all want to see justice done, but only those with power get their way. I deliver justice with my toxins. Batman delivers justice with his fists. You and people like you attempt to deliver justice by keeping us locked up here, as the law orders you to. I made that man pay for killing those people. You keep us here and treat us, but we do not get any better and the community is not any safer with all the breakouts. I have done more than you to make the world a better place, and for that I am not sorry."

A tired sigh escapes my lips. He is slipping into another of his delusions of grandeur, and I do not feel like fighting him to turn the focus of the conversation around. I press the button under my desk and lean back in my chair as the guard opens the door.

This time he is prepared for the disturbing gaze that greets him. He meets Crane's eyes with an impassive, almost bored expression. They engage in this awkward staring contest for several moments before the guard steps into the room and points at the hat.

"Come on buddy, toss it to the doc and let's go."

He remains motionless, like a child pretending not to hear a parent.

"Don't make me get physical on your bony ass. You like being still? I can give you a vacation in the infirmary, get a nice bed set up for you next to Dent."

I bury my face in my hand. Crane stands up slowly, and I think I can see the faintest hint of a smile tug at the corners of his lips. He throws the hat weakly and it drops in front of my desk, forcing me to get up and fetch it. As soon as I stand straight again he leans in toward me and I jump back involuntarily.

"Good heavens doctor, I believe that guard just threatened me. I am now in grave fear for my wellbeing. What kind of establishment are you running here?"

The guard crosses the room with all the grace of a charging rhino. I quickly step in front of Crane, not so much worried for his safety as tired of being forced to put up with these hot-headed idiots every day. He stops in front of me, eyes fixed over my shoulder on the taller man. I press my hand into the beginnings of a headache in my temple.

"I really, _really_ don't want to have to report you. You have no idea how much paperwork that is. Can I trust you to play nice, or do I have to waste someone else's time by calling him in to escort you?"

The guard mumbles and rolls his eyes. Something touches my shoulder and I jump, cursing myself silently for losing my composure yet again. Crane smiles down at me.

"Thank you, doctor. I look forward to our next session. I'm sorry if it got a bit gloomy for a while there, but you did decide to make a job out of listening to other people's problems. How lucky you are, able to go to bed each night without such tragedy in your own life weighing you down."

The guard takes a hold of his shoulder, and I am surprised when he does not resist. He is still smiling as he is led out of my office. Disturbingly, I think it is the most honest smile I have ever seen him wear.

_Author's Notes: Emotion used- edgy_

_My first time writing for Batman, and he doesn't have much to say. Hopefully it comes across that he did not mean to hurt Two-Face in whatever epic battle they just had. I like the idea that he is not completely desensitized by all that he has seen and done, that he is doing this because he still cares and not to vent his frustrations. _

_Dr. Durante wishes he was fast enough to get that mask._

_Crane seems to get creepily cheerful when he picks up on the doctor's bad mood. He is also a master of lies, which confuses things further. _


	4. Chapter 4

It is never completely quiet in Arkham Asylum. Between the noises made by the patients and the ancient plumbing, even the latest night is supplied with an eerie soundtrack that haunts your every step. There are still some members of staff to be seen- a bored looking guard or tired nurse, but they pay me no attention. I am simply a doctor going beyond the call of duty to pull an all-nighter. If anything, they will see me and hold me in higher esteem than before.

The room holding the special "supplies" is unguarded. No one will notice if I decide to access it tonight. I must, after all, reunite Mr. Crane's hat with the rest of his costume.

Whoever organized the items apprehended from the patients did a disgraceful job of it. Mr. Tetch's peculiar little cards are easy enough to locate, but you cannot use them alone, can you? There is some kind of... headband... thing. Ah! There it is. Put the card in my pocket and the costume in my briefcase, and we mustn't attract attention with the headwear just yet.

I do not know the name of the man running the security control centre, but that hardly matters.

"Hello there."

"Sir, you can't come in here. Hey, what are you doing with-"

"Be quiet. That's better."

His face is so relaxed; I wouldn't be surprised if he begins drooling. What a relief. I almost didn't expect it to work. How on earth did Tetch manage to design these things to work so well without any adhesive to hold on to the head or a direct connection to the brain?

"Pull up cameras overlooking the cell of patient Jonathan Crane."

"Yes, Sir."

The screens light up with an overview of the cell and the hallways closest to it.

"Pull up controls for alarm systems and cell door lockdown."

"Yes, Sir."

"Disable all alarms except for the one connected to the east entrance. Activate east entrance alarm."

"Yes, Sir."

The sound is hollow and distant by the time it reaches the control centre. All attention is now drawn as far away as possible from Crane's cell.

"Open the cell door of patient Jonathan Crane."

"Yes, Sir."

It only takes a few moments for the professor's head to peek out on the grainy black and white screen. He hesitates halfway out of his room, looking up and down the hallway like a nervous animal sniffing at the air. After a few moments he makes a run for it, heading for the west entrance, away from the alarm. As I suspected, he will make a wonderfully predictable scapegoat.

No need to hurry with donning the disguise. Crane must have a bit of a head start to disappear effectively. Without his toxins he is like a declawed cat, cautious and more likely to look for a hiding spot than a fight.

Without further instructions the slack-jawed security worker sits and stares blankly at the screens. The remarkable device has rendered him the picture of calmness, and I wish I could say I feel the same way. My heart pounds as I consider things that could go wrong with the plan.

What if I can't do it? I may know some of the people who are still here tonight, and even if they are only vague acquaintances they are still human beings. No, I mustn't think of what the toxin will do to them. We have the antidote stored in the infirmary. They will be fine.

What if he- no, it cannot happen. I will not let him get away with it any longer. His selfish crusade has the public worshiping at his feet, but I will show them all how hollow it really is. He doesn't do anything the police couldn't take care of on their own, and he refuses to be there for the people who really need him. I will make him regret not being there for Julie.

Time to bait the trap.

Touching the hat was bad enough, but the rest of this burlap atrocity- euhg. I don't understand how anyone is supposed to focus with all this cloth and straw scratching at the skin, and the smell coming from the gas mask... Concentrate. Don't think about it.

It is quite clever, really. Canisters in the sleeves allow the costume's wearer to merely point his hand in whatever direction he wants to send a high-powered stream of toxic gas. There are pockets on the inside for small gas bombs, and I even took the time to reattach a few of the vials designed to be hidden by the straw of the hat. It is practically a metaphor for the way Crane arms himself mentally to ward off normal relationships and social contact. I must remember to record this observation in the patient's notes tomorrow. He will, after all, be returned to us before long by the police even without the Batman's help.

Most of the guards and other personnel who responded to the alarm are still investigating the area, but I can see on the screens that some are beginning to disperse away from the east entrance. Must act quickly.

I am close enough to hear irritated voices before I catch sight of anyone. The man's heavy footsteps give me a few moments' notice, enough time to gather my courage and take a stance in the middle of the hallway, waiting for him. He rounds the corner and his eyes grow wide with shock.

"Oh shi-"

I cut him off with a burst of the gas, enough to discolor the air around him a hazy green. He holds his hand over his mouth and coughs. The effects of the hallucinogen overtake him quickly, and within moments he turns on his heels and runs screaming around the corner, heading back in the direction of the others.

I cut through another hallway, bringing me behind the group that is now watching the man yell and flail at unseen things in the air. They are so distracted that they do not notice my presence until I have already created an inescapable cloud of gas in front of me. Some freeze and others flee, though they will simply run into the tainted air the first man came out of.

Each person reacts differently to being forced to confront his or her fears. One man runs heedlessly from whatever is chasing him until he slams into a wall, knocking himself out cold. Another backs into a corner and curls up in a fetal position, sobbing. Some stare at me for a few moments, transfixed, before pushing each other over in their desperation to get away from whatever I have become in their eyes. I should not be watching this. I should... should go back and wait for him.

Even back in the control room I cannot get away from it. They run soundlessly across the screens, but as they spread through the asylum the walls echo with their screams. Patients chime in, howling like excited dogs. I must focus on the final steps of preparation.

"Erase all video records for today."

"Yes, Sir."

While my temporary assistant covers my tracks I can place several bombs around the room, each wired to go off at my command and fill this tiny space with enough fear toxin to drive a man into deep, if not permanent, madness. For the finishing touch I remove the hat and place it on the man's head. He does not react, of course. All that remains now is to wait for the Batman's impulses to draw him to investigate.

He arrives within minutes, as if he had some kind of direct link to the asylum to monitor breakouts. Based on what I have heard about him, I would not be surprised if he had hidden some kind of surveillance equipment here. He appears on one of the screens through the east entranceway, which has been left open by one of the panicked men as he fled onto the grounds.

"Have all cameras follow Batman."

"Yes, Sir."

The nearest camera whirrs to life to follow him as he stalks down the hallway like a predatory animal. He pauses to look up at it. Even on the small screen it is possible to see that he is wearing a gas mask. That should be easy enough to take care of.

The moving cameras lure him in like a trail of bread crumbs to the security control centre. After having my assistant disable the lights the room is left to bathe in the soft glow of computer screens. The closet is not a sophisticated hiding spot, but it will do just fine in offering the element of surprise.

He bursts through the door in a remarkable flash of speed and pounces on the hated figure seated at the computer. As soon as I register the movement I trigger the gas bombs and leap out of the closet at the man already disappearing in the fog. I grab for the gas mask, feel it in my hand, and hold tight as a punch connects with my gut and sends me flying backwards out of the control room. A scream rips through the air.

I am doubled over in pain, but it does not matter. I have him now, trapped in the clutches of madness, ready to be brought in from his egotistical pursuits for his stay in Arkham. The city will see how unnecessary he truly is. They will forget him and begin giving credit to the real heroes of Gotham. Despite needing to lean against the wall for support I can hold my head high and be proud to see-

The security man running out of the control centre? How can he move or make those terrible sounds? Is there something wrong with the headband?

Oh.

When he drops the snapped card at my feet that explains one mystery, but leaves another painfully open.

"How can you not quake in terror at the Scarecrow's weapon?"

He might as well inject fear toxin with that stare of his. It would be futile to try to gas him again, and I foolishly did not think I would need any other weapons.

"Where is Crane?"

"Wha... what are you talking about? I am the Scarecrow!"

"Crane's pants don't drag on the floor, and," he narrows his eyes further, sending chills down my spine, "he would have remembered that I had already developed a pre-exposure antidote to that particular chemical composition of fear gas. I passed his cell on the way here. I'll ask you again; where is he?"

Before I can respond he grabs my shirt and slams me against the wall. Anger mingles with the fear washing over me.

"This is all his fault! How was I supposed to know the blasted toxin was obsolete? I admit it. I let him escape. Shouldn't you be chasing after him right now? It is all you ever seem to be interested in after all."

"The police are surrounding the area as we speak after a tip on a possible breakout. He doesn't stand a chance if he's on foot and on his own. Now, I would like to know who you are and why you did this."

"I am the voice of reason in this city of madness, that is who I am! You dress up to play vigilante and delude the people into thinking they need you. Why are you trying to do the police's job for them? Where were you when the bridge collapsed and sent all those people into the river? Where were you when _they_ needed you?"

Confusion softens his expression, though not his grip.

"You did this because of the accident that happened a year ago? No one even tampered with the bridge."

"Do you think I care? Julie Durante- do you think she cared why it happened while she was stuck in that car, sinking into the river? Do you think she cared that you were too busy showing off to be there to rescue her when the water was filling up her lungs?"

Something flashes across his face. A memory? He frowns.

"The Riddler. He had me trapped in a maze for the better part of that day. Otherwise, I would have been there."

"You could have! You could have been there putting those skills of yours to better use, but you insist on playing your elaborate games and encouraging these... these sick people to follow you! My job would be a lot easier without you, and my wife would still be alive if you weren't so selfish!"

"That's not the Scarecrow."

I turn at the sound of a new voice and see that the authorities have arrived. They are not wearing gas masks. The vents must have had enough time to clear the toxin from the air.

"No, it isn't, Commissioner. He's somewhere outside, but if he slips past the blockade it won't take me long to track him down. I believe this is one of Arkham's doctors."

The commissioner drops his eyes and shakes his head.

"What is it about this city that drives so many scientists and doctors off the deep end?"

There is compassion in this man's face. Perhaps he is a fellow voice of reason.

"Please, this is not what it looks like! I am trying to help you. He has deluded you like all the others. Why else would you not arrest him as soon as you see him and send him here for treatment? Let me show you. I can show you, if you'll help me get free from him."

The look in the commissioner's eyes deepens, as if a great sadness has washed over him. It is hopeless. He is so delusional that he would rather continue to support the Batman than examine his error in working with him. His eyes leave me and firmness replaces his weary expression.

"The staff who were exposed to the gas have been restrained and we've got people treating them in the infirmary. Once we get Scarecrow back everything should be in order again, or at least whatever semblance of order this place ever approaches. We are, as always, grateful for your assistance."

The Batman nods before handing me over to two officers, who place me in handcuffs. My exhausted body gives out along with my mind, and I allow myself to go limp as they drag me to wherever I will be held.

The egotist maintains his grip on the minds of the poor deluded souls inhabiting this city.

The voice of reason has been silenced.


End file.
